


Angel and the Badman

by AngelOfTheMoor, Arronaut



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Destiel Reverse Bang, M/M, Outlaw Dean, Priest Castiel, Western AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 08:13:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6276505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelOfTheMoor/pseuds/AngelOfTheMoor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arronaut/pseuds/Arronaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Father Castiel Novak has a secret friend, Dean Winchester, who has taken to visiting the priest to confess his misdeeds. Despite Dean's actions, Castiel believes the outlaw has a good heart. One night, Dean tells Castiel about his latest mission, one that promises to be deadly. Castiel is heartsick afterward, but what can he do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angel and the Badman

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> This is my entry for the [Destiel Reverse Bang](http://destielrb.livejournal.com/). I had the good luck to claim the wonderful art by thearronaut pictured here.
> 
> I'd like to thank [consultingcas](http://consultingcas.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing this fic and thearronaut for providing such a great prompt. Here's a link to the [art master post](http://thearronaut.tumblr.com/post/141286046280/angel-and-the-badman-father-castiel-novak-has-a). Thanks also go to the mods for running the first ever Destiel Reverse Bang!
> 
> The title comes from a John Wayne movie.
> 
> Warnings for a couple of gruesome sights, sexual talk, and brief sexual content.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcome and much appreciated! Hope you enjoy!

 

Castiel squints, trying to make sense of the words on the page in the lantern light. It’s late, midnight having come and gone long ago, but he’d been seized by an idea for this Sunday’s homily, something to do with the role of grace. He flips through the Bible again, searching for a passage he wishes to reference.

Someone pounds on the door, and he startles. Who’d visit him at this hour?

He knows who, of course, for no one else would venture out here so late, and he itches with anticipation even as he dreads letting the man inside his log cabin. It’s dangerous, and he really should put a stop to it.

But Lord help him, he doesn’t want to.

Castiel stumbles to his feet and, lantern in hand, shuffles toward the door. When it swings open, he’s greeted by the sight of one Dean Winchester. He looks deceptively innocent, with his earnest green eyes framed by delicate lashes, a smattering of freckles dusting his countenance, and tufts of sandy brown hair peaking out from underneath his Stetson.

But he’s one of the most notorious outlaws in the region. He wears a pistol on a holster attached to his leather belt, and Castiel knows he has several knives tucked away inside his boots and up his sleeves. His black trousers are caked with dirt, his long black coat layered with grit and dust.

Dean flashes that charming, achingly beautiful smile of his. It never fails to ignite a longing deep inside, no matter how much he attempts to snuff it out. It shames him, for the spark is sinful and ugly and _wrong_.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says softly. He takes one step forward, his movement surprisingly hesitant.

“I could’ve been asleep,” Castiel grumbles as he beckons Dean inside with a sweep of his hand.

“Aw, you wouldn’t have minded,” Dean replies as he follows Castiel into the cramped kitchen. They sit down on opposite sides of a small wooden table, and Castiel places the lantern on its surface.

True. It’s not the first time Dean has shown up at such an odd hour.

“And you’re still dressed,” Dean observes, frowning. Also true. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his priestly attire.

“Hmm,” Castiel mumbles, tugging at the collar as he thinks. “I had an idea that wouldn’t let me go.”

“Yeah? About what?”

He’s afraid to articulate it aloud. He’s still not even sure he can yet put it into words. “We both know that’s not what you came here for.”

Dean’s face falls, and Castiel feels guilty for a moment. But he’s right. Dean’s visits are for his own benefit; he doesn’t care much for Castiel. He comes simply because Castiel is available, and for his part, Castiel can’t find it in his heart to turn him away.

Dean flushes. “Um. Yeah.”

For over a year now, Dean has sporadically turned up on Castiel’s doorstep because Castiel is someone he can unburden himself to. On his visits, he confesses to every misdeed since he’d last come by. Sometimes Castiel has already heard of them by that point, but occasionally he hasn’t.

As is the case now. He hasn’t heard any news about Dean Winchester since his last visit two months ago.

He remembers his first encounter with Dean. He never could’ve guessed how much the incident would change his life.

xxxxxxxxxx

_Castiel awoke to someone frantically banging on his door. He pulled a coat over his bare shoulders (it’d been a hot night, so he’d been sleeping shirtless), lit his lantern, and stumbled toward the door. A parishioner must be in dire need, he theorized, and he sent up a brief prayer for whoever it was._

_He flung open the door and gaped at the sight before him._

_He recognized Dean Winchester from the wanted posters he’d seen in town. He’d been handsome in the sketches, but they hardly did him justice. According to them, he’d robbed countless innocents and blown up at least two trains._

_He limped on one leg, and blood gushed out of a wound in his thigh. Slumping against the doorway, he clutched at it with one hand and, with shaky fingers, pointed a gun at Castiel. “You’re going to let me in,” he rasped. “I don’t care if you’re a priest. I won’t hesitate to kill you.”_

_Castiel blinked down at him. “Oh, that won’t be necessary.” Whatever Dean’s crimes, he was seriously hurt, and Castiel’s instinctive reaction in such situations was to provide succor. In his condition, Dean hardly posed a threat; waving the gun around was an empty gesture._

_“Let me help you,” Castiel continued. He wrapped his arms around Dean, who collapsed in Castiel’s embrace. Castiel guided him toward his own bed and coaxed him into lying down. He grabbed a rag and wiped off what blood he could, but it had already soaked through Dean’s trousers. The tremor in his hands worsened, and Castiel reached for the gun. “Let me take that.” He didn’t want Dean to accidentally shoot himself._

_Dean’s grip on the handle tightened. “No,” he croaked._

_“I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.” Dean stuffed the gun under the pillow, and Castiel breathed a sigh of relief. “We need to get that bullet out of you. I’ll be back.” Castiel dashed to the kitchen and grabbed a knife as well as a bottle of whiskey he kept for medical emergencies. He set the whiskey on the bedside table. “This will hurt.”_

_Dean eyed the whiskey. “Maybe you should give me some of that first.”_

_Yes, it could help Dean brace himself. After Dean had taken a couple of sips, Castiel warned Dean that he was about to begin. As he dug into the skin, Dean screamed, and Castiel cringed. Afterward, he used the whiskey to disinfect the wound, and Dean howled in pain once again._

_“You should get some rest,” Castiel urged when he was finished. Dean’s eyes slid closed, and Castiel took a seat. He couldn’t sleep anymore that night, and besides, someone needed to watch over Dean._

xxxxxxxxxxx

_On that first visit, Dean stayed for a little over a week. Castiel had already known the publicized details about Dean. That he’d been raised by Alastair Heller, a wealthy rancher and the most influential citizen in town, after his parents had been murdered. That he’d run off three years ago and taken to harassing travelers._

_But he learned much more about Dean over that week, things that the public would never know. Dean had recurring nightmares from which he awoke in a cold sweat. He’d sat with Dean after one such dream, extended a compassionate ear as Dean sobbed over the hazy memories of his parents’ death. How he remembered the posse who’d run them down, the blood as men slashed at their bodies. How all he could recall about the time after that was how much his head had hurt._

_And he’d discovered the scars peppering Dean’s body. Yes, many of them came from altercations he’d had with lawmen, but Alastair Heller himself had also contributed his fair share in what he considered “discipline.”_

_And Dean’s targets weren’t random. They were all associated with Alastair._

_“One day, Father, I put the pieces together,” Dean divulged. “Alastair had raised me to take over his enterprise. I knew he hired men to intimidate people who refused to give him what he wanted. He’d even had one farmer killed who wouldn’t sell him his land no matter how big the offer. And I realized . . . I remember my parents as good, hard-working people. It’s kind of fuzzy, but I think they really treasured their little ranch . . . and guess who owns the plot that used to belong to them? Fucking Alastair.” Dean shook his head. “I couldn’t stay there anymore after that. I knew I had to make him suffer for what he’d done to not only my parents, but other small landowners.”_

_At first, Castiel had been skeptical of Dean’s claim. But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. How had Alastair become so lucky in business? He never seemed to encounter any obstacles to his goals, and when he did, they miraculously disappeared._

_“Two wrongs do not make a right,” Castiel admonished Dean one night._

_Dean smiled grimly. “I know I ain’t a good man, padre. But if there’s one good thing I can do in this world, it’s makin’ that bastard pay for what he’s done.” He shrugged. “I’m damned anyway. Might as well make it count for something, right?”_

_“It is never too late to be saved.”_

_“Yeah, you peddle that, but it ain’t true. Not for me.”_

_Castiel wished he could somehow convince Dean to change the course of his life. Despite what he believed, Dean was not a terrible person. He had a good heart within, a purity that endured even with the deeds he’d committed. But Dean would hear none of it._

_On the last day, Dean suddenly turned bashful. “May I stop by from time to time?” Castiel opened his mouth to answer, but Dean continued, “It feels so good to share all this stuff with someone who’s not judging me.” He barked a humorless laugh. “Even if you are thinking about how I’ll rot in hell . . . at least you don’t act like it.”_

_“It is not my place to judge,” Castiel replied. “And yes, of course.” He’d enjoyed the company. He was well-regarded in town, but he was treated with such deference that he couldn’t get close to anyone. He liked the solitude, which was why he lived outside of the town limits, but he’d still been lonely. He hadn’t even realized it until Dean’s arrival, but now, to have someone talk to him frankly—he wanted more of it._

_So he honored his pledge not to inform the authorities of Dean’s whereabouts, and he gladly listened to Dean whenever he showed up._

xxxxxxxxxxx

“Would you like some whiskey?” Castiel offers.

Dean shrugs. “Wouldn’t mind.”

Castiel hops to his feet and throws open the cabinet where he stores the bottle. He glances at the gun lying next to it; during one of his visits, Dean had gifted it to him for “protection.” He’d tried to refuse, but Dean wouldn’t hear of it. “Lotta lawless men ’round these parts,” Dean argued. “Only a fool wouldn’t take precautions.” Dean smirked. “Or an innocent like you.”

“I am not innocent,” Castiel huffed. By that time, the troubling dreams had already begun, the ones in which he would caress Dean’s skin, taste from Dean’s lips. Besides, in the Lord’s eyes, everyone was guilty.

He shuts the cabinet, grabs two tumblers, and carries the items to the table. He pours himself a finger and fills Dean’s glass. Castiel sips at his whiskey, and Dean takes one huge gulp before doing the same.

Dean smiles grimly. “I remember when you didn’t used to drink.”

“I usually don’t,” Castiel replies. “But I see no problem with indulging upon occasion.”

Dean coughs and suddenly looks self-conscious. “I don’t believe the priest I first met would’ve said anythin’ like that.” He rubs at his temples and sighs. “I’ve corrupted you, haven’t I?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Castiel objects as he places his empty glass on the table.

“Of all my sins . . . ” Dean muses. “I regret that one the most.”

There’s a note of finality in Dean’s voice. What could Dean mean by it? Unsure of how to respond, Castiel ignores the remark. “What do you wish to confess tonight?”

Dean snatches the Stetson off his head and drops it on the table. He runs a hand through his hair. With the tousled strands, he appears boyishly vulnerable. “I have come to the last part of my plan.”

Castiel wrinkles his brow. “What do you mean?”

“To ruin Alastair. I’ve robbed him of resources, killed his worst thugs. They won’t destroy anyone else’s lives. When I finish, Alastair won’t be able to, either.”

Dread shivers up Castiel’s spine. “Why not?” he breathes. He already knows the answer, but he desperately doesn’t want it to be true.

“I am going to eliminate him.”

 _Eliminate_. A euphemism, surely. Castiel gawks at Dean. “You are going to kill him?”

Dean slaps his empty tumbler on the table. “Won’t be the first time I’ve done it.”

Yes, Dean had killed two other men, the ones who had directed Alastair’s illegal operations. Dean had detailed all their crimes; they were enough to give anyone nightmares. How they’d murdered families using the most brutal methods imaginable, even dismembered a few people.

“Dean, that’s suicide!” Castiel exclaims.

Dean snorts. “As if that matters.”

“Does he not have bodyguards? They will shoot you on sight!”

“I know how to elude them.”

“Dean, there is no way you can survive—”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

“You were not planning on it?! . . . ” Castiel splutters.

“’Long as I get rid of Alastair, it don’t matter what happens to me.” His eyes roam over Castiel’s face. “You gonna report me?”

This is the first time that Dean has ever informed Castiel of his activities _before_ carrying them out. Perhaps he does foresee his own death. Castiel’s stomach churns at the thought.

“No,” Castiel answers. His mouth is painfully dry. “What you tell me in the confessional remains between you and me.”

“But this ain’t a confessional, Father.”

Dean hasn’t addressed him formally since the initial visit. The fact that he does so now, more than anything, underscores the truth of what Castiel suspected—Dean doesn’t expect to live after killing Alastair.

Sorrow permeates him. It confirms just how far Castiel has fallen . . . here he is, feeling more grief at the thought of an outlaw dying than the demise of the outlaw’s intended target, a law-abiding citizen.

Law-abiding Alastair may be, but only because he pays other men to carry out his sins.

Castiel’s mind returns to the present conversation. “Nevertheless, I shall treat it as such. As I always do.”

“Okay. Um.” Again, Dean sweeps a hand through his locks. “There’s somethin’ else I need to tell ya, now that it’s my last chance and all.”

“All right.”

Dean lays his hands on the table, palms up, and stray dirty blond tendrils flop down over his eyes, veiling them. “I’ve told you about how I’ve engaged in sodomy.”

Castiel freezes. Whatever Dean’s about to say, he cannot listen to it. His skin already prickles with the mere utterance of the word. _Sodomy_. All the acts Dean has confessed to engaging in, taking a man’s member into his mouth and suckling until he’s drained him dry, allowing a man to insert his penis into his buttocks (with the assistance of Vaseline, Dean had explained, no doubt noticing the puzzled expression on Castiel’s face—he hadn’t known anything could mitigate the burn). His hips stuttering until he’d spilled his seed down another man’s throat, kissing it off of the other party’s lips.

Listening to Dean’s lurid descriptions, Castiel had felt his own member hardening. A novel experience, and shameful. He would clasp his hands over his lap to hide the bulge.

He would wonder what had made him so depraved, what had prompted him to desire Dean’s tongue on his skin, their hands exploring each other’s bodies.

He’d even resorted to pumping himself with his hand, imagining that Dean was the one stroking him. Twice.

Afterward, shame had seeped through his pores, and he’d feared that everyone would be able to discern that he was a dirty sinner, the worst of them all. He couldn’t even attend confession to atone. He’s the only priest within a span of two hundred miles.

But even if he could atone, he didn’t even know if he wanted to.

Now, he trembles at the knowledge of just how deeply his baseness extends.

Attempting to compose himself, Castiel clears his throat. “Have you engaged in sodomy since then?”

“No. But I . . . ” Even in the dim lantern light, Castiel swears Dean’s countenance reddens. “I have entertained thoughts of it.”

“Oh,” Castiel exhales. To his ears, it sounds almost like a dreamy sigh. He hopes Dean heard it differently.

“There is one man in particular I fantasize about. With everyone else, it was hard and rough and fast . . . all stolen and secret. But with him, I want it to be soft. I want to spend hours just laying next to him, basking in the warmth of his skin, the scent of him. When we . . . ” Dean coughs. “I would want to take my time with him. Worship him for as long as he deserves.”

Castiel’s heart speeds up. He doesn’t know how to respond, but what Dean is describing . . . he pictures doing with Dean himself, and a spell of dizziness hits him. He says the first thing that comes to mind. “It is a sin to worship anything but God.”

Dean’s guffaw sounds forced. “I imagine that is the least of my sins, Father.”

There it is again—the formal address. He misses the nickname, the _Cas_ , the way the syllable envelops him, makes him feel warm and safe.

He shouldn’t.

“A sin is a sin,” Castiel mutters for want of anything better to say.

“I would kneel between his legs, drink from his johnson, like a sacrament—”

Castiel hears a sharp intake of breath and belatedly realizes that the noise had emanated from his mouth. “There is no need to be so graphic,” Castiel interjects. If Dean continues, he’s not sure he can withstand the temptation. He can already feel his penis leaking.

“No? You’re always tellin’ me to be specific.”

“Not . . . not about this,” Castiel manages.

“There’s one more thing I’ve gotta say.”

“All right.”

Dean takes a deep breath. “Um. Since this is probably the last time, I’ve gotta be honest—”

“Don’t say that.”

Dean’s eyes meet his, guileless. “But it’s true. This man—” Dean lowers his voice. “It’s you, Cas.”

 _Cas_. It sounds as if Dean’s tongue caresses the word.

“Me?” Castiel echoes dumbly.

Dean stares down at the table. “Yeah. Told ya I ain’t a good man, padre.” Dean chuckles mirthlessly. “Prob’ly takes a special kind a wicked to want to do that with a priest, though.” Dean raises his eyes, which are now brimming with tears. “After all you did for me . . . this is how I repay you. By wishin’ I could drag you down with me.”

Lord help him, he is not strong enough. Castiel cannot resist the siren song of falling.

He craves nothing more than to fulfill Dean’s desires. And his own.

But he must not forget himself.

“You are not wicked, Dean,” Castiel assures the outlaw.

“I ’preciate that. Even if it ain’t the truth.” Castiel frowns. “Still. Cas. You’re the only one who’s ever seen me, I think. Maybe that don’t make no sense . . . but no one’s ever seen me as _Dean_. To Alastair, I was his adopted son; to everyone else, I’m a bloodthirsty outlaw, but you . . . you treat me like I’m somebody.”

“You are,” Castiel avows.

Dean shrugs then refills his glass with whiskey. Castiel pours himself another finger, and they drink in silence.

He barely maintains his composure until Dean leaves. Once he’s alone, he dissolves into sobs. Despite everything, Dean is his dearest friend, and he feels something . . . deep for him. He wants to know Dean carnally.

And he doesn’t want Dean to carry out his plan.

He wants Dean to live.

He wants to spend languorous hours in bed by Dean’s side, getting lost in him as if he alone is the universe.

But these are thoughts from Satan. Perhaps God is testing him.

He must remain strong. Dean is a notorious criminal. He shouldn’t be friends with him, let alone . . .

Yet it’s embedded in his core—

 _Dean_.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Three days later, a deputy approaches Castiel in the small wooden church that serves his congregation. Dean Winchester has been caught, he explains, and will require last rites before he hangs the next morning.

Two of Alastair’s ranch hands had discovered Dean this morning. He was kneeling on Alastair’s bed, holding a knife. His hands as well as the knife had been drenched in blood, and Dean had been sobbing. One of Alastair’s employees fetched the sheriff, and Dean didn’t resist arrest.

Hat in one hand, the deputy scratches his scalp with the other. “I don’t understand it. I reckon he had plenty of time to make his getaway . . . or an even chance at least.” The deputy shrugs. “Guess he just got tired of runnin’.”

“I suppose,” Castiel murmurs. But even if Dean had been able to flee before Alastair’s body had been found, he could not have eluded capture for long. Alastair is an influential man in the region, and the authorities would have exhausted their resources tracking him. The army might even have sent a sizable force to pursue him.

He imagines what Dean must have looked like, blood covering his hands, weeping over Alastair’s body. His heart clenches at the picture his mind draws. Dean had fulfilled what he viewed as his purpose in life, and he’d given up. He saw nothing in the future for himself, and besides, he believed he was unworthy of anything good.

But something in Dean’s heart . . . it’s purer than that of many of his fervent parishioners.

At dawn, he prepares for his visit to the jail. He packs his container of holy oil and, after a moment, decides to strap on the holster and gun Dean had given him. It’ll be his tribute to Dean.

When he arrives at the jail, a deputy escorts him to Dean. At their approach, Dean sits up on his cot. After the deputy unlocks the cell for him, Castiel perches on a chair.

Dean eyes the deputy standing about a foot from the bars. “Does he have to be here?” he whispers.

“Some privacy is customary in situations like these,” Castiel agrees. He turns to the deputy. “Would you mind leaving us alone for a bit?”

“I am here for your protection, Father Novak,” the deputy replies. “Dean Winchester is an exceedingly violent man.”

Castiel glances at Dean then back at the deputy. “He won’t hurt me,” he asserts confidently.

The deputy shrugs. “I am not responsible for anything that happens to you.” He retreats, and finally, Castiel and Dean are alone.

“I am here to administer last rites,” Castiel announces.

“I don’t want none of that.”

“Dean, your very soul is at stake.”

Dean smiles bitterly. “As it should be. I know where I’m goin’. Begins with an ‘h’ and ends with an ‘l.’ Right where I belong.”

“It is never too late—”

“You told me that before, Cas.” Dean shakes his head. “No. All I’ve ever really wanted is for someone to listen to me. To know the darkest parts without showin’ their disapproval . . . Which you did. Even after what I confessed about my . . . twisted desire.” _For you_ , he doesn’t add, but it hangs in the air all the same.

If Dean is twisted, what does that make Castiel? He’s supposed to be a man of holiness, a conduit between this earth and God, and yet . . . and yet, his essence screams for Dean. To save him and hold him close.

“Only God can judge,” Castiel supplies. He thinks about the literal meaning of his words. If only God can judge, who is he to say that his craving for Dean is wrong? Could Dean’s pull on him somehow be . . . holy?

No. Surely Satan is whispering in his ear.

But then why does . . . the thought of losing Dean depresses him, yes, but it also feels _wrong_. Not in the way one feels when succumbing to selfishness, but in how one feels when choosing the morally dubious option.

Satan could be deceiving him, but still. Castiel doesn’t know what to believe anymore. He’s disoriented by how rapidly the thoughts cycle through his brain.

“I do have one more thing I wanna mention, though,” Dean continues. “It’s not a sin, not exactly . . . it’s just somethin’ that confuses me.”

“Tell me.”

“After Alastair . . . died, I didn’t feel anything. It was all hollow. I usually feel _somethin_ ’, a twinge of guilt, like, but this time, I got nothin’. Then.” Dean bites down on his lip. “I just couldn’t stop _cryin_ ’. I don’t know what got into me, but it was like I was mournin’ Alastair and shit. After what he did to my family, how could I _miss_ the motherfucker?”

 _And what he did to you_ , Castiel doesn’t add. Dean’s opinion of himself is too low to accept the remark without arguing.

He understands why Dean would feel as he does. Children mistreated by their parents often still love them. Castiel’s own father had done nothing but beat him, yet he has always loved him.

“He raised you, Dean,” Castiel concludes. “It is natural to have some regard for him.”

“That bastard stole the people who should’ve raised me.”

“I’m sorry.” His eyes catch on Dean’s lips, and he notices a trickle of red. “You’re bleeding.” He leans forward and wipes Dean’s mouth with his sleeve. Afterward, he leaves his hand there for a second too long before pulling it back. Dean stares at the stained sleeve.

“Uh. Thanks.” Dean flushes. “Not that it matters. I’m ’bout to be dead, anyway.”

Castiel wishes he could do more for Dean. Perhaps—“Will you indulge me in one favor?”

“Sure,” Dean chokes out. A tear leaks from the corner of his eye, and he brushes it away.

Castiel clasps Dean’s hands in his. “May I pray for you?”

Dean snorts. “Why not?”

He squeezes Dean’s hands reassuringly, his fingers and palms sliding against the whorls and calluses of the other man’s.

He knows he shouldn’t say any part of the Sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick, but the words seem particularly apt for the occasion. So he recites them, omitting any mention of anointing: “May the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up. Amen.”

A strange shock courses through his veins with the prayer, but it’s gone so quickly that Castiel cannot determine whether he’d actually felt the sensation or merely imagined it.

When he finally releases Dean’s hands, the outlaw’s eyes alight on the holster. “Never thought I’d see you wear that,” he notes, grinning.

“I thought it would be fitting,” Castiel replies.

“Hey, can I give ya somethin’?”

“Of course.”

Dean reaches into his boot and pulls out a knife. Castiel gawks at it. “The sheriff allowed you to keep that?” he inquires.

Dean smirks. “Doesn’t know I have it.”

Castiel frowns. “Then I question his competence.”

Dean chuckles. “Understandable.” He proffers the knife hilt-first to Castiel “Take it.” Castiel accepts the item and studies the finely crafted silver handle. “It belonged to my dad. John Winchester.”

Castiel’s mouth falls open. “Dean. I cannot accept this.”

“Why not?”

He presents the hilt to Dean. “It’s one of the few things you have left from your family.”

Dean snorts. “What’m I gonna do with it, have it buried with me?” Castiel thinks that sounds like a wonderful idea, but Dean barrels on. “No. I’d rather pass it on to someone I . . . keep it.”

 _Someone you what?_ “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing.” Dean smiles wistfully. “I’m just glad I got to see you one more time.”

“So am I.” Castiel tucks the knife underneath his cassock. A minute later, he leaves the cell.

Outside, Sheriff Adler insists that Castiel stand on the platform next to him. The deputies will bring Dean out soon, he explains, and afterward they’ll cart the body to the church graveyard, where they expect Castiel to help with the burial. He agrees to the arrangement because Dean deserves a respectable resting place.

Soon, two deputies escort Dean outside. He takes mincing steps, uncertainty flitting across his face the whole while. One of the guards tugs at Dean’s arm, hurrying his progress to the gallows. Castiel’s heart aches for him—the death march should not be rushed. Despite his earlier bravado, flashes of terror pass through Dean’s eyes.

Once Dean reaches the end of the platform, one of the deputies drapes the rope around his neck. Dean’s eyes follow it up to the tree, and he swallows. Castiel cannot suppress a shudder at the morbid spectacle.

The deputies step back, and Sheriff Adler addresses Dean. “Any last words, Mr. Winchester?”

Dean’s eyes seek Castiel’s. “I’ve already said my piece.”

“Very well.” Sheriff Adler proceeds forward and kicks open the trap door himself.

Below, the assembled crowd cheers. Through the din, Castiel makes out an almost imperceptible sound—Dean choking on his last breaths. His face is bloated, cheeks puffy and red, and the light in his eyes gradually fades.

Castiel’s heart drops. He clutches at it, the pain too immense. Despite his actions, Dean is a good man. Really, he is. He doesn’t deserve to die like this . . . Castiel doesn’t want him to die like this.

Acting on instinct, he darts forward and pulls out the knife from underneath his cassock. He saws through the rope, and Dean’s body falls to the ground. Dean is unconscious, and Castiel prays it’s not too late.

“Father Novak!” Sheriff Adler shouts.

Castiel spins on one heel to face him. “Yes?”

“What do you think you are doing?”

“Dean will not hang today.”

“I never knew you were opposed to capital punishment, Father.”

“That is of no import.” He hops off the platform and crouches by Dean’s side. He glances up at Sheriff Adler, who’s drawn his revolver and pointed it at Castiel.

“Don’t make me use this,” Sheriff Adler warns.

Castiel reacts before he has time to think. He wields his own pistol and shoots Sheriff Adler in the arm. Sheriff Adler drops his gun and curses.

A few members of the crowd surge toward him, and Castiel directs the gun at them. “I will not hesitate to use this.”

“You can’t shoot all of us,” one man observes.

“No, I cannot. But do you really wish to test the law of probability?” He throws one of Dean’s arms around his shoulders and stands up. “Now,” Castiel declares to the assemblage. “I shall be leaving town, and Dean is coming with me.” He keeps the pistol pointed at the gathered mass. “Should anyone try to stop me, I will shoot.”

The crowd parts for him, the majority of them gaping at him with wide eyes.

“You won’t get away with this, Father!” Sheriff Adler fumes behind him.

“We shall see about that,” Castiel retorts.

He appropriates the first empty cart he encounters and lays Dean in the back. After that, he takes a seat and urges the two horses forward.

They speed out of town. Castiel has no idea where they are headed, just that it’s somewhere away from here.

Panic sets in as he realizes what he’s just done. He’s thrown his whole life away. Given up everything he’s dedicated himself to. His faith has always been unshakeable.

Until now.

No, he hasn’t lost his faith, not exactly. But he’s lost himself; he no longer knows his role in the cosmos. He’s clearly unfit to serve the Lord.

He’ll never have a chance to do that again. Listen sympathetically as parishioners unburden themselves in confession and bestow absolution upon them. Nevermore administer the Eucharist. Or commune with the churchgoers after services. Nor give homilies. That one he’d prepared for this Sunday, the one on grace . . . he will never deliver it.

He is no longer a representative of God on Earth. He’s been tainted by his lust for a green-eyed outlaw. His carnal desire for a _man_.

But it’s not just lust. It’s more . . . _profound_ . . . than that.

He cannot find it in himself to regret rescuing Dean, even if the future is now uncertain.

Once he’s put a sufficient distance between himself and the town, Castiel pauses and climbs into the back to ascertain whether Dean is still alive. He puts his ear to Dean’s lips and feels the faint puffs of Dean’s breath. He has been saved. Thank God.

But should he thank God for this?

What would God think—what _does_ God think—about what he’s just done?

He’s just damned himself.

Or perhaps God does not even care—maybe He is nothing like the deity Castiel believes in.

For some reason, the second possibility frightens him more.

Whatever the truth, Castiel cannot bring himself to worry about it. Something about Dean acts as a magnet upon him, and he can no longer resist the attraction. It is simply a fact of nature, like the cat’s urge to chase a bird.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Dean wakes up a few hours after Castiel rushed out of town, and he’s full of questions. Castiel doesn’t know how to explain himself, so he tells Dean that he won’t answer any inquiries until they stop for their night’s rest. Meanwhile, he tries to compose something coherent but meets with little success. They ride in silence until dusk, when Castiel decides they should pause for the night.

“Okay. What the hell is going on?” Dean asks.

Castiel is still not ready to talk about the subject. He examines the field they’ve found themselves in and sees nothing more than dying grass. How can they start a fire? The temperature is dropping. “I think we should build a fire first,” he decides.

“Cas—”

Castiel strolls around, his eyes scanning the ground. “Let’s try to find a few sticks.” He gathers several stray branches and piles them together while Dean just looks on. Then he pulls out a box of matches from underneath his cassock, lights one, and sets the small collection ablaze. He sits down, leans his back against the wagon, and sighs in contentment as he holds his hands to the fire and listens to the horses chew grass behind him.

Dean plops himself down a few feet away from Castiel. “Now will you stop avoiding my questions?”

Castiel lowers his eyes. “It is hard to explain.”

“I deserve to know why the fuck I’m not dead. ’Cause I wasn’t plannin’ on anything else.”

Castiel raises his eyes. He will face the situation—and Dean—directly. “The truth is, Dean, I have grown fond of you. When I saw and heard you . . . choking . . .” Castiel’s eyes cloud, and he takes a minute to clear them. “ . . . I couldn’t just stand by. So I stopped it.”

“You stopped it,” Dean repeats incredulously. Castiel nods. “Jesus.” Dean reddens. “Um. Sorry. Just.—No one tried to stop you?”

“I shot the sheriff.”

 _I shot the sheriff. Oh, God. I_ shot _someone._

“You killed the sheriff?!”

“No. The bullet hit his arm.”

“Oh.”

Castiel closes his eyes and tries to recall the morning’s sequence of events. It’s hazy, somewhat obscured by how frenetic his limbs had felt. “After that, no one tried to arrest my progress. I don’t understand. I did threaten the crowd with my gun, yet I could not have withstood them if they’d tried to stop me.”

Dean chuckles, startling Castiel. His eyes fly open. “They were probably shocked when their peace-loving priest turned violent.”

“Maybe,” Castiel mutters.

Dean tamps down on his laughter and assumes a stony expression. “But seriously, Cas!” he thunders. “What were you thinking?!” Castiel opens his mouth to reply, but Dean forges ahead. “Don’t give me that shit about being _fond_ of me! No one with any sense is fond of me!”

“Then perhaps I have no sense.”

Dean rubs at his eyes. “Cas. You can’t. I’m a thief and a murderer.”

“Oh, Dean. I wish you could see what I see. Your heart is so bright.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“No.”

“I’m one of the worst damn sinners in the world, Cas. You threw away your life for _me_?”

“It is not a waste. I know you, Dean. I know you do not revel in your misdeeds.”

“Maybe not all of them. But I’m a fornicator, Cas, and you want to know something? I don’t feel guilty for it. Not even when it involves another man. I know I should, but . . . ” Dean shrugs. “I don’t.”

Castiel wishes Dean had not brought that up. His desire for Dean will be his undoing.

Because he can no longer resist it.

He leans forward, clasps Dean’s face in his hands, and presses his lips to the outlaw’s. For a second, Dean gives in, but then he shoves Castiel away.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Dean asks.

“I want you,” Castiel breathes.

Dean gawks at him. “No. You can’t.”

Castiel tilts his head and studies the other man. “Why not?” He swallows. “I know you feel it, too.”

“Shit. I really did corrupt you, didn’t I?”

“No,” Castiel states firmly. “This is _my_ choice.” He could fight it, but it’s easier to succumb. And surprisingly, it doesn’t feel wrong.

“It’s a sin.”

“But it feels right.” He caresses Dean’s cheek with one hand. “Doesn’t it?”

Dean nods. “Yeah,” he exhales.

Castiel plants his lips on Dean’s again. The kiss is sloppy and awkward. After a minute, Castiel draws back. “That is the first time I have ever kissed someone,” he confesses as his face heats up.

Dean snickers. “I can tell.” Castiel glowers at him. “What? I think it’s cute.” He grasps Castiel’s shoulders and pushes him against the side of the wagon. “I’ll show ya how it’s done.” He fuses their lips together, the kiss almost chaste. After a minute, he slides his tongue along the seam between Castiel’s lips, and Castiel gasps. Dean inserts his tongue through the opening and tangles it with Castiel’s. It feels . . . divine. There is no other way to describe it. He moans, his thirst for Dean only growing as their lips continue their dance.

When Dean pulls back for air, Castiel chases his lips, but Dean holds him at arm’s length. “You enjoyed that, huh?” Dean smirks.

“Very much so,” Castiel sighs.

Dean dives in for another taste, and Castiel eagerly reciprocates, daring to be aggressive. He plunges his tongue into Dean’s mouth, and Dean groans, the sound wanton. Castiel’s penis twitches, and he unconsciously parts his legs.

“Damn, padre,” Dean murmurs, his lips grazing Castiel’s. “You learn fast.” He snakes a hand underneath Castiel's cassock and rests it on his thigh. Then it migrates upward. Castiel leans his head back, presenting his neck to Dean. Dean’s teeth latch onto his Adam’s apple, and Castiel hisses. He arches against the touch, and Dean’s hand slides ever upward until it finds his groin. He drags fingertips over the cloth covering the member, and it ignites an insatiable spark somewhere deep inside of Castiel. He bucks into Dean’s hand, his mind solely fixated on the sweet pressure applied by Dean’s fingers. He clutches at Dean’s back with his fingertips. “Dean,” he whispers. “Don’t stop.”

“You like this,” Dean teases, squeezing Castiel’s penis through the fabric. Castiel thrashes against the touch. Dean licks at Castiel’s clavicle before reattaching his teeth and burying a hand in Castiel’s hair, tilting his head as far back as it can go. Castiel is enraptured, drowning in Dean. If this is falling, then he wants to fall forever. Soon, his body seizes, and semen bursts into his underpants. He sinks against the side of the wagon, overcome by ecstasy.

“You came, huh?” Dean observes.

“I believe so,” Castiel pants, his eyes fluttering closed.

Dean grins. “What did you think?”

“Mmm. Transcendent.” Castiel has committed the sin of pleasuring himself before, but the release has never felt as powerful as it did just now.

“Transcendent?”

“Yes.” He cracks open an eye and reaches for Dean’s waistband. “Let me.”

Dean scoots back, and Castiel frowns. “Not tonight, Cas.” The rebuke stings. Why wouldn’t Dean want Castiel to give back the experience he’d received? His hurt must show, for Dean’s expression softens. “Soon, I promise. If you want to.”

“I do.”

“Okay.” Dean rests his back against the wagon, his shoulder brushing against Castiel’s. He seems troubled.

“Dean. Are you all right?”

Dean wrings his hands. “Yeah.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s just . . . I really should be dead, Cas.”

Castiel’s eyes widen, and he sits up straighter. “No.”

Dean laughs bitterly. “I just don’t know what to do now. I didn’t think I was gonna live past today. I got no plans.”

“Neither do I.” He turns to face Dean. “But that is the beauty of the frontier. Go far enough west, and no one will know us. We can start anew.” He’s trying to convince himself as much as Dean.

“You really think so?”

“Yes.” He infuses his voice with conviction, and it makes him believe his own words. He clasps Dean’s hand and rubs a thumb over the knuckles. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

“Okay.” Dean snuggles against Castiel’s side and lays his head on his shoulder. Castiel wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulders and holds him close. His underpants are uncomfortably sticky, but soon he drifts off, and he’s content.

In his dreams, he’s cocooned by love and warmth.

Regret never makes an appearance.


End file.
